


360 No Scope

by dirtbag



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Experimentation, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Public Hand Jobs, they jerk each other off in an arcade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-22 19:45:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10703838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtbag/pseuds/dirtbag
Summary: The main problem is that Noctis can’t stop thinking about making out with Prompto.





	360 No Scope

**Author's Note:**

> this started as a kink meme fill for a prompt about prompto and noctis jerking each other off in an arcade but it got way longer and feelsier than i originally intended. they do still jerk each other off in an arcade though. also i got the name king of death 2 from [this](https://disexplications.tumblr.com/post/159165060164/video-game-titles-created-by-a-neural-network) beautiful post with a bunch of video game titles generated by a neural network

Noctis is going to kiss Prompto. 

He’d arrived at this conclusion three weeks ago, on the night of their high school graduation. The two of them had opted out of attending any of the parties being thrown by their classmates, but that didn’t stop Ignis and Gladio from dropping by with cake and beer and a pop-up card that sang whenever it was unfolded. 

Unsurprisingly, it hadn’t taken long for things to get rowdy. 

Four beers in, Noctis recalls looking across the kitchen island in time to watch Gladio pull Prompto into a celebratory headlock. Prompto had been red-faced and wheezing, cheeks bulging with unswallowed cake, and in that moment Noctis realized he had to know what it was like. At least once. 

Before an opportunity had the chance to present itself, Prompto spat cake everywhere and Ignis sent both him and Gladio home in disgrace. In the weeks since then Noctis has managed to find some excuse to put it off every time they’ve hung out, but he’s determined that today will be different. Today, he’s going to kiss Prompto. 

Noctis’s palms have been sweaty the whole walk home just thinking about it. As they head down the hall toward his apartment, he keeps them shoved into his pockets so that Prompto won’t see. Thankfully, Prompto seems to have more pressing things on his mind than Noctis’s clamminess levels. 

“She’s so cute,” he’s saying when Noctis tunes back in, in the same lovelorn tone he uses to talk about every girl who catches his eye. “Just my type, too.”

Noctis grunts. He thinks Prompto might be talking about a blonde arcade employee they’d talked to the other day, but it’s hard to say for sure. Prompto loves most girls he meets. This fact is yet another item on a long list of reasons that it’s dumb to want to kiss him. For some reason, the thought doesn’t deter Noctis much. 

“Think she’s dating anyone? Probably, right?” 

“How should I know?” Noctis nudges Prompto out of the way with his shoulder once they reach the apartment’s front door. He tries to unlock it quick, but his fingers fumble with the key. 

“Whoah,” Prompto says. “Someone’s grumpy.” In his voice, the comment sounds less like a jab and more like an accepted fact of life. 

Neither of them have backpacks to drop onto the polished floors or tightly cinched school ties to loosen— it feels weird to remember they’ll never have those things again, so Noctis tries not to think about it. 

Instead he takes a hard look around the apartment’s main living area once the lights flicker on, just to make sure there’s no one around to whack him with swords or demand he read over political debriefings. 

Oblivious to any potential threats, Prompto kicks off his boots and flops backward onto the couch like he owns the place. 

“Wanna sit?” He pats the cushion next to him. 

Stalling for time, Noctis heads for the kitchen instead. The opening strains of the King’s Knight theme emanate from the couch as he opens up the fridge and rifles through its contents. Prompto has some stuff in here; there’s a slice of pizza from the last time they’d gone out for it and a couple weird protein shakes from some brand Gladio turned him onto, all mixed up with Noctis’s soda cans and plastic-wrapped leftovers. 

Noctis reaches in and grabs the first thing his fingers touch, a bottle of fancy electrolyte water he doesn’t remember buying. Prompto is squinting down at his phone when Noctis makes his way back to the living room, engrossed in a match. 

Noctis sits down next to him and gulps water around the sudden desert in his throat. By the time the bottle is about a third gone, Prompto’s lost. 

“Hacks,” he says glumly, dropping his phone onto the coffee table without bothering to start another game. “Hey, gimme some?”

Noctis hands the bottle off. Instead of watching Prompto drink it, he reaches for the remote and switches on the TV. 

Soon Prompto slaps the almost-empty bottle down onto the coffee table next to his phone and turns to face Noctis expectantly. 

“ _So_ ,” he says, drawing out the syllable. “Feel like doing anything tonight?”

“Uh,” Noctis says. It’s now or never, but for some reason his mind is blank. He’s spent a fair amount of time thinking about the actual moment of putting his mouth on Prompto’s, but until now the moments leading up to that moment seemed to be of little consequence. 

Prompto tilts his head. “You alright, bro?”

“Yes,” Noctis says. “No. Hang on.”

Noctis grabs a fistful of Prompto’s shirt to keep him still. He leans in close and then pauses, studying the confused crease between Prompto’s eyebrows, the tiny stray flake of dried hair gel stuck to his forehead. 

“Your hands are all sweaty,” Prompto points out. His voice sounds a little quieter than usual, but he seems otherwise unconcerned by what’s transpiring. Noctis takes a deep breath and leans the rest of the way forward before he can talk himself out of it. 

Prompto’s mouth is warm. He makes a weird muffled noise when Noctis’s lips touch his, but he doesn’t pull away, just wraps one hand around Noctis’s forearm and lets Noctis kiss him for a few moments that seem to stretch onward into eternity. 

When Noctis pulls back, his heart is pounding. He makes sure to retreat to a respectable distance, in case Prompto gets pissed off and wants to leave or something. 

He’s still holding Noctis’s arm, which seems like a good sign, but he’s not saying anything, which seems like a bad one. 

“I didn’t, uh,” Noctis says. He’s beginning to feel a bit sheepish about this whole idea. “It’s not—I just wanted to see. What it’s like.”

“Noct,” Prompto says after a while. His fingers flex on Noctis’s forearm, and then he lets it go. He’s looking at Noctis, but Noctis is too busy trying to memorize all the buttons on the TV remote to see what kind of face he’s making. “You kissed me for like one second.”

The response is surprising enough to make Noctis look up from the remote. It’s also kind of annoying, after all that time he’d spent getting hyped up for this. 

“Like you could do any better,” he says with a scowl. 

Prompto scrambles across the few couch cushions that separate them like he’s been waiting for a challenge this whole time, elbowing Noctis’s stomach in his haste. When Noctis opens his mouth to protest, Prompto kisses it. 

“There,” he says, once he’s pulled back. He’s clearly very pleased with himself, up until the point where Noctis dissolves into laughter. 

“What?” Prompto asks. “What’s so funny?”

“That sucked,” Noctis says. “I’ve done longer warp-strikes.”

Prompto flushes with outrage. “Shut up! You moved!”

Noctis is about to protest this obvious twisting of fact when Prompto lunges at him again, knocking him back against the cushions. 

“Idiot,” Noctis says. His voice doesn’t come out sounding mad, even though the sudden attack made him thump his head against the arm of the couch and he’s one wrong move away from being stabbed by Prompto’s belt buckle. 

“ _You’re_ the idiot,” Prompto says, grinning, “and now you’re immobilized, so I—”

Noctis cuts Prompto off by twisting out from underneath him, a fairly easy feat thanks to all the time he spends with Gladio. 

Prompto yelps as the two of them tumble off the couch onto the floor, missing the sharp edge of the coffee table by a margin of inches. Noctis gets his breath back first, rolling onto his side and looping an arm around Prompto’s neck to subdue him. 

“You’re assaulting a commoner!” Prompto kicks his legs around a bit, but otherwise makes no attempt to free himself. 

“Shut _up_ ,” Noctis says, tightening his grip until Prompto starts kicking in earnest. “Or I’ll kiss you again.”

“Please,” Prompto says, “anything but that.” His voice is raw from laughter and also from the fact that Noctis is sort of choking him. Noctis can’t recall ever being fonder of anyone in his life, so he leans in close and plants a solid kiss right on Prompto’s freckled cheek. 

Prompto stops kicking at that, so Noctis does it again. And again. It’s kind of hard to stop once he gets started. 

“Gods, you’re embarrassing,” Prompto says, attempting to pry Noctis’s arm from around his throat. 

“Your fault,” Noctis says. “For having a soft face.” 

He loosens his grip, and Prompto turns to face him properly. Noctis doesn’t even have time to worry about what’s going to happen next before Prompto rolls himself right into Noctis’s personal space. 

They misjudge the distance when they kiss again, so that Noctis ends up with his lips pressed against the side of Prompto’s nose. It takes a while to regroup from that, and everything is still kind of confusing once they do, but Noctis is too engrossed in the warm indistinct feeling of Prompto’s mouth against his to care very much. 

After some indeterminate length of time, Prompto pulls away by a few centimeters. 

“Did you hear that?” 

Noctis blinks, willing himself to pay attention. “What?”

“The door,” Prompto says. “Someone knocked. What if it’s your dad? What if he cuts my head off?” 

Noctis does his best horizontal shrug. “There’d probably be a trial first.”

“ _Dude_ ,” Prompto whispers, betrayed, and then they both freeze at the sound of a polite rap at the door. 

“Hope you’re decent, Noct,” calls a muffled voice from the other side, followed by the click of the door unlocking. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” Prompto chants, trying to shove away from Noctis and stand up and dust himself off all at the same time. 

“Prompto, don’t— ” Noctis starts, but his warning falls on deaf ears. Prompto’s head has already made a solid collision with the side of the ironwood coffee table. 

A moment later, Ignis steps into the room with a canvas grocery tote in hand and a fat manila folder tucked under one arm. 

“Evening, Specs,” Noctis says, making no move to get up off the floor. Next to him, Prompto rolls around in agony, clutching his forehead. 

There’s a long pause wherein Noctis almost thinks Ignis is going to cave and ask what the hell is going on. 

“Your Highness,” he says instead, turning to deposit his groceries onto the kitchen island. Suddenly, Noctis can’t hold in his laughter. 

— — —

That evening, Ignis hands Prompto an ice pack for his forehead and starts chopping up potatoes like nothing is amiss. 

At first Noctis thinks that he’d chalked the whole thing up to youthful exuberance and they’d managed to get away with it. In the days that follow, he realizes he’d been naive to hope. 

Finding the time to hang out with Prompto gets more and more difficult over the course of the next week. There’s always some political engagement, some well-timed interruption, all of it so perfectly above-board that Noctis would have looked foolish if he’d protested. Part of him isn’t even sure this is all Ignis’s doing; he’s long suspected that his graduation would herald an upswing in royal responsibility. 

Regardless of its origin, the interference is hard to deal with. It would be bad enough if things between them were the same as usual, but things have shifted since that night in ways he isn’t sure he fully comprehends. 

The main problem is that Noctis can’t stop thinking about making out with Prompto. When they do manage to get together without Ignis or Gladio around to chaperone, always for short amounts of time in in public places, every look they share feels laden with significance. Every casual slap on the shoulder is charged with weird, tense energy. Noctis catches himself zoning out a minimum of twice per hangout, studying the way Prompto’s mouth moves when he talks instead of listening to what he’s saying. 

Today is the first chance they’ve had to be alone together in almost a week and a half. As they head down the tree-lined street that leads to Prompto’s house, Noctis wonders whether or not he’s just being weird about all this. For all he knows, Prompto could be looking forward to a typical afternoon of lounging around playing video games while Noctis raids his pantry and makes fun of his granola bars. 

“I can’t stay that long,” Noctis says as they head up Prompto’s driveway. “Training starts at five.”

“Aw, really?” Prompto frowns, the corners of his mouth turning down just slightly. 

Noctis has seen him make that face a thousand times for a thousand different reasons, but this time he has to look away fast for the sake of his own heart. 

“Can’t keep Gladio waiting. He might eat me or something.”

Prompto fishes his keys out of his pocket once they reach the front door. He’s still frowning, now more contemplative than petulant. 

“We better hurry up, then,” he says, pulling the door shut behind them as Noctis bends to take off his sneakers. He makes it halfway through before he registers the weirdness of that statement, fingers faltering on the laces. 

“Huh?”

“You know, dude,” Prompto says, voice impatient as he kicks his boots into a pile by the door. “Right? You gotta know.”

Noctis straightens up, heart beating fast.

“I have some theories,” he says, trying not to sound too much like a guy who’s been thinking about Prompto’s mouth all week. 

It’s a futile attempt, but that stops mattering once Prompto darts across the space between them, so quick that his socks slide against the wooden floor. He grabs Noctis’s shoulders for balance and leans in close enough for his freckles to become distinct. They’ve darkened up since graduation, helped along by the summer sun. 

Noctis knows that Prompto will kiss him if he just waits another second, but even that miniscule stretch of time has become unbearable. He gets a good handful of Prompto’s t-shirt and hauls him even closer, pressing their lips together with the intensity of a week’s worth of pent-up longing. 

Prompto’s hands move from Noctis’s shoulders to his forearms to the back of his neck, like he wants to touch everywhere at once. Noctis isn’t sure whether he’s more enamored with the clumsy way their mouths move together or the relief that washes over him at the realization that Prompto must have come away from that night with the same itch under his skin as Noctis. 

They haven’t gotten any better at kissing since the first time, but finesse is the furthest thing from Noctis’s mind as Prompto’s teeth graze a little too hard against his lower lip. The way his stomach swoops at that makes him feel like they should do this someplace other than the front entryway to Prompto’s house. It’s not like his parents are home, but still. 

“Should we, uh,” he mumbles against Prompto’s mouth, so unwilling to separate himself that the words come out mostly unintelligible. 

Prompto seems to understand what he’s getting at. He curls his fingers around Noctis’s wrist and tugs him past their abandoned shoe pile, through the neat kitchen and down the hall to his bedroom. 

Inside, the curtains are drawn. Muted late afternoon light filters through, falling in stripes across Prompto’s King’s Knight posters and the calendar he’d forgotten to turn over from May to June. There’s not much time to inspect anything else before Prompto pulls him down onto the unmade bed, rolling close and hooking his ankle around Noctis’s calf. 

Noctis’s heart leaps in spite of itself. They’ve shared space before, but never like this. Prompto’s never pressed his palms against Noctis’s cheeks, guiding him close enough for their lips to brush, and Noctis has definitely never stuck his tongue in Prompto’s mouth as a result. 

Prompto makes a small stunned noise when Noctis does it, lips parting with no resistance. It feels good to surprise him, even though Noctis is pretty sure he isn’t doing this right. There’d already been a lot of spit involved in their kissing, and the incorporation of his tongue into the mix might edge things closer to gross territory. 

Potential grossness doesn’t stop Noctis’s entire body from catching fire when Prompto reciprocates, tongue sliding against Noctis’s for just the briefest moment. 

He’s hot all over, not just because of the room’s slight stuffiness or Prompto’s comforter bunched up underneath him. He’s hyperaware of every point of contact, every quick exploratory stroke of Prompto’s tongue. His limbs feel heavy, and so do his eyelids, but every single part of him thrums with restless energy. 

Noctis kisses Prompto harder and winds an arm around his waist, hand spread flat against the small of his back through his t-shirt. It occurs to him that he could pull the shirt up, reach underneath it, feel Prompto’s bare skin under his palm. The thought is so terrifying it makes him dizzy.

It’s also presumptuous, maybe; Prompto seems content to remain clothed, all of his attention focused on kissing Noctis with as much enthusiasm as possible. When Noctis’s own scandalous train of thought makes him falter, Prompto exhales and skirts his thumb under Noctis’s jawline, tilting his head up just a bit until they’re at a good angle again. 

Linear time loses most of its usual importance after that, minutes melting and fading into each other until Noctis can’t be sure how long they’ve been lying there. He’s vaguely aware that he’ll have to disentangle himself at some point and at least try to make it to training, but that thought is easily obscured by more important things. Like Prompto’s teeth, and his eyelashes, and the slight unsteadiness of his breathing whenever Noctis does something new with his tongue. 

Only when Prompto reaches down between their bodies and pats the vibrating shape of Noctis’s phone in his pocket does he manage to come back to himself. He blinks a few times and pulls back, wrestling the phone out of his pocket just as it stops ringing. 

It was Ignis, of course, but Noctis is more concerned with the clock onscreen than the notifications for the six missed calls he’d managed to tune out.

“Shit,” he says, peering down at his phone like the numbers might change if he wills them to hard enough. “I missed training.”

Prompto sits up and scruffs a hand through his hair. 

“They’re totally gonna kill you,” he says, sounding way too amused by Noctis’s misfortune until another thought occurs to him. “Wait, me too!”

“Probably,” Noctis agrees, ignoring the way Prompto groans and flops backward again. No point in sugarcoating things. 

The phone starts to vibrate with Ignis’s seventh call. Noctis clears his throat before lifting it up to his ear, hoping his voice won’t betray him. Somehow, he’s not optimistic. 

— — —

Noctis is pretty sure he’s dying. 

He’s spent a lot more time with his right hand than usual since that afternoon, but even that doesn’t take the edge off for long. Every time he lets his guard down he’s inundated with thoughts of Prompto’s summer-darkened freckles and the warmth of his back through his t-shirt. 

He’d tried to play the whole thing off, claiming he and Prompto lost track of time playing video games, but Ignis doesn’t seem to buy it for a second. After that day, it becomes almost impossible to even see Prompto in public. 

Almost two weeks go by before Noctis manages to maneuver himself into an unsupervised trip to the arcade. He doesn’t tell anyone that Prompto is meeting him there, but he’s pretty sure his being allowed to go has more to do with how despondent he’s been lately than any kind of subterfuge on his part. 

Noctis slouches against the wall of the building and pulls out his phone, doing his best to ignore a nearby cluster of whispering teens. Thankfully, Prompto shows up a minute later, humming to himself as he ambles down the sidewalk. When he catches sight of Noctis, his face lights up.

“Hey, buddy! Long time no see.” As they step through the threshold into the darkened arcade, he slings an arm around Noctis’s shoulders. One of the teens lifts her phone to snap a picture. 

“Your girlfriend working today?” Noctis asks, just to see Prompto turn red and splutter.

“I don’t— shut up!” 

Prompto taps Noctis’s cheek with his knuckles, glancing around for the girl in a manner he probably thinks is discreet. Once he’s confirmed to his satisfaction that she isn’t watching them from the shadows, he pulls away to start feeding coins into the slot of a Justice Monsters Five machine. 

“Just curious,” Noctis says. He leans against the cabinet and watches Prompto’s fingers move over the controls. 

“Yeah, right,” Prompto says, eyes locked on the screen. His face still looks faintly pink. “What’ve you been up to, anyway?”

 _Jerking off to you_ , Noctis’s mind supplies. 

“Royal stuff, I guess,” he says instead. Prompto winces in sympathy.

“I’m glad they set you free for a day.” He glances up from the game for a split second in order to to grin at Noctis, earlier outrage forgotten. “They did, right? You’re not gonna ditch me in a half hour for some luncheon?”

“You wish,” Noctis says, pushing more coins into the slot and elbowing Prompto out of the way. 

They go three more rounds like that, at which point Prompto gets bored and drags Noctis over to play some King of Death 2 in spite of his protests. Noctis would rather eat rocks than admit this out loud, but Prompto is very slightly better at video games than he is, and the discrepancy in skill is never more apparent than when they’re playing light gun shooters. 

Once they reach the machine, Prompto hops up onto the platform and hefts the blue plastic pistol in his palm like it’s the real thing. The title screen fades into the first wave of zombies, and in a matter of seconds Prompto’s reduced them all to dark pixelated blood splatter. 

Noctis can’t help but notice the way Prompto’s muscles shift under his skin, his tiny smile whenever he lands a headshot. It’s definitely pathetic to be getting worked up about his best friend shooting badly rendered monsters with a toy gun, but self-awareness doesn’t make Noctis’s palms any less clammy. He’s so zoned out that he doesn’t even notice the game finishing until Prompto waves a hand in front of his face. 

“All good, Noct? I think I beat my high score!”

“Uh, yeah,” Noctis manages, accepting the pistol when Prompto hands it to him. “Nice.”

Prompto squats down to feed more coins into the machine. Noctis tries to come to terms with the fact that he probably won’t make it through this afternoon without embarrassing himself.

The first wave reappears, and his fingers falter on the trigger right away. The stupid gun never seems to work for him the way it does for Prompto. He only manages to drop ten or eleven zombies before the horde swallows him up, gore-splattered game over screen flashing in the background. 

Behind him, Noctis hears Prompto stifle a laugh.

“Don’t say anything,” he warns, moving to put the pistol back in its holster. There’s nothing else for it. He’s just going to have to cast dignity aside and ask if Prompto wants to go make out in the bathroom. 

Before he can turn back around, Noctis feels the platform he’s standing on groan under a new weight. Prompto is climbing on with him, shuffling forward in the limited space until his body is a solid warmth all along Noctis’s back. 

“Hang on,” he says. His mouth is right by Noctis’s ear. “Don’t you want some pointers?”

Noctis goes stiff, mind racing. There are definitely people around, snatches of laughter and conversation fading into the computerized blips and explosions coming from the cabinets. It’s true there’s no one else in this particular corner, but that could change at any second. Noctis knows he should shove Prompto away, but he knows with equal certainty that there’s no way he will. 

“Sure,” he says instead, tossing self-preservation out the window along with dignity as he struggles to keep his voice even.

“Okay,” Prompto says. Noctis can hear the smile in his voice as he picks up the pistol again. “Hold it like that.”

Prompto’s fingers are warm over Noctis’s as he guides his hands into a different grip than usual, tighter and more evenly distributed. 

“Legs apart and relax your shoulders,” he continues. Noctis almost chokes on his own spit, but manages to comply. 

“Now try again.” 

They restart the game, Prompto makes one last adjustment to Noctis's grip, and the horde sets upon them for the third time. 

Unsurprisingly, Noctis does even worse than before. It’s impossible to concentrate with Prompto right there, breath gusting against the nape of Noctis’s neck as he laughs. 

“Guess I’m not such a good teacher,” he says. Noctis wants to knock him backwards onto the sticky arcade carpet and kiss him until they both die of asphyxiation. 

Prompto leans forward a little, helping Noctis put the gun back. It’s so easy to angle his head the right way, crane his neck just a bit so that his lips brush against the corner of Prompto’s mouth. Part of Noctis can’t believe he just did that in public, and part of him wonders why it took him this long. 

Prompto is silent for long enough that Noctis starts to wonder whether he’d made a mistake. Before he can turn around to apologize, he hears a quiet noise of defeat. Prompto’s arms tighten around his middle. 

“I keep thinking about you,” he mumbles. He’s buried his face in Noctis’s shoulder, voice muffled in the fabric of Noctis’s shirt. 

He doesn’t sound like he’s trying to be sexy on purpose. In fact, he sounds just as embarrassed by this whole situation as Noctis feels. Somehow, that only makes things worse. 

“Yeah?” Noctis asks, surprised that his voice comes out as anything more than a raspy croak. “Like when?”

“Like when I was—” Prompto cuts himself off, rubbing his face harder into Noctis’s shoulder like it’ll deliver him from the thick fog of embarrassment hovering over them both. Noctis knows the feeling. 

“Me too,” he says. Prompto shifts even closer, and he takes a deep breath. “Prompto, we gotta—”

“Yeah,” Prompto agrees, and then he’s pulling Noctis off the platform and leading him even deeper into the arcade, past people who probably don’t give a shit what they’re doing but who Noctis can’t help but imagine are staring at them. 

Noctis assumes they’ll leave through the back entrance, maybe head to a bathroom stall like he’d been thinking earlier. Instead, they end up in front of an unfamiliar two-player horror game. It looks kind of interesting, actually, but the most important thing about it by far is the thin dark curtain separating its interior from the rest of the arcade. 

More than one stray coin rolls onto the floor as they hurry to empty the combined contents of their pockets into the machine. They climb inside, and Noctis gets hit with a face full of Prompto almost before he can yank the curtain shut behind them. 

It might be their sloppiest kiss yet. Desperate fingers tangle in his hair as Prompto pushes his mouth against Noctis’s so hard that Noctis can feel the pressure of his teeth. Their tongues slide together and Noctis shifts, wanting to be closer, barely noticing the way his plastic seat creaks in protest of the movement. 

Prompto’s hands move from Noctis’s hair to his face, fingers curling against his cheeks. He uses them to hold Noctis in place, tilting his head where he wants it. The feeling sends a thrill through Noctis that has him swallowing his apprehension and reaching a hand down in between them, groping around until it lands on Prompto’s thigh. It takes him a second to work up the nerve to move it higher, but Prompto’s gasp when Noctis’s hand fits over him through his pants is worth it. 

“Uh, Noct,” he whispers, like he thinks it might have been an accident. “You’re touching my dick.”

“I know,” Noctis whispers back, rolling his eyes. “Do you want— ” 

He cuts himself off, realizing that he’s not quite sure what he wants to ask Prompto to do. From the second he felt Prompto’s weight against his back he’s been seized with the sudden urge to do anything, all of it, whatever they can get away with before they’re arrested for indecent exposure. 

“Yes,” Prompto says. The answer doesn’t really help with the decision-making process; neither does the way he shifts in his seat, reaching over until the heel of his palm is pressed against Noctis’s erection. 

“Fuck,” Noctis says, then worries that saying that makes him sound like a virgin, then decides he doesn’t care but that he should try to be quiet anyway. The more they talk, the more likely they are to get caught sitting in a horror game with their hands on each other’s dicks.

He tries doing the same thing, pressing down harder, and Prompto has to cover his mouth with his free hand to muffle a noise. Noctis is so turned on it hurts, a dull ache spreading in outward waves from a very specific central point.

He fumbles with the button on Prompto’s jeans until he gets them open, yanks down his zipper next until the only thing separating his hand from Prompto’s dick is a thin layer of cotton. 

They’ve given up on trying to kiss and do this at the same time, so they’re both just sort of breathing on each other’s faces. It makes the enclosed space even hotter, but Noctis doesn’t care about anything but the outline of Prompto’s dick under his palm, familiar and unfamiliar and really, really warm. 

Prompto has a bit more trouble with Noctis’s jeans, but eventually he has them open too. Noctis has to go still and take several deep breaths at the feeling of Prompto’s hand on him through his underwear. Prompto pauses the movement of his hand, watching Noctis carefully. 

“Noct,” he says, once Noctis more or less has himself under control. “If you don’t— I mean, it’s okay not to—”

“Shut up,” Noctis says. “I wanna jerk you off.”

Prompto doesn’t shut up, but he does brighten like a dog being offered a treat. 

“What a coincidence,” he says, and proceeds to stuff his hand down the front of Noctis’s boxers.

Noctis’s mind goes blank when Prompto curls a palm around him and starts to stroke, fuzzed over by a wave of static that drives out everything else. 

There’s no real reason for this to feel so good. It’s just a hand, and a dry one at that. Prompto’s movements are inexpert, his grip a little too tight, but Noctis still feels a creeping sense of euphoria that he doesn’t think will go away anytime soon. 

He rocks his hips forward as hard as he dares. The seats aren’t bolted down as well as they could be, and every loud creaky movement makes him even more paranoid that someone is going to fling back the curtain and discover them. If that happens before Prompto makes him come, Noctis thinks he might die. 

“Are you close?” Prompto asks. His voice cracks on the last syllable. The game’s title sequence repeats again, bathing his face in shades of red, orange, blue. 

Noctis nods and Prompto speeds up, the edge of his thumb sliding against the slit of Noctis’s cock and sparking a jolt of sensation. Looking right at him becomes too much, and then everything becomes too much, and then Noctis squeezes his eyes shut and comes all over Prompto’s hand. 

“Wow,” Prompto says, voice hushed. 

Noctis allows himself a few seconds to recuperate, but he knows that the most important thing right now is getting Prompto off as fast as possible so they can make their escape. He’s never jerked another guy off before, but recently he’s spent a lot of time jerking himself off while thinking about another guy, which seems like more or less the same thing. 

He yanks down Prompto’s underwear as best he can, noting with some degree of pride that his boner hasn’t flagged at all in the interim. Prompto is warm in his hand, and he’s leaking a lot. The sight of it sends an awful thrill of pleasure through Noctis, even though he’d literally just come. He wonders whether he and Prompto will ever be able to hang out again without thinking about dick-touching. At this rate, probably not. 

Noctis drags his fist up the length of it, slow and careful to start with and then faster on the downstroke. Prompto tips his head back against the plastic headrest and breathes out, eyelids half-shut. Noctis doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything sexier. Not in porn, not in Gladio’s weird magazines, never in his life. 

His wrist starts to ache after a while, but that’s nothing new. He powers through it, keeping his eyes fixed on the flush burning all the way down Prompto’s neck as motivation.

He can tell when Prompto gets close, in the way his body gets tense and his breathing speeds up until he’s gasping on every inhale. Noctis is just opening his mouth to say something encouraging when he hears a strain of conversation that rises above the usual din, passing way too close to the tiny curtain that separates them from the rest of reality. His hand freezes on Prompto’s dick. 

A quick panicked glance in Prompto’s direction reveals that his eyes have flown open and he’s looking around wildly, as if hoping to find a trap door they’d overlooked. 

Unconsciously, Noctis shifts closer, an adjustment that’s reflected in a slight jostling of his grip on Prompto’s cock. 

That’s all it takes for Prompto to let out a noise that Noctis would really like to hear again in a somewhat less urgent context, curling in on himself as he comes all over Noctis’s hand as well as the armrest of his plastic seat. 

“Dude,” Noctis whispers, attempting to wipe his hand on his jeans and button them back up at the same time. “You came on the seat.”

“Huh?” Prompto asks, looking from his own sticky hand to the mess on the armrest and back again like he’s not quite sure how he’d found himself in a situation filled with so much ejaculate. 

“Time to go, buddy,” Noctis says, reaching over to wipe it off with one of the trailing sleeves of the flannel Prompto has tied around his waist. “Unless you wanna make the evening news.”

“Right,” Prompto says, fumbling himself back into his jeans. He seems dazed, which Noctis can’t help being endeared by, even though they’re under some pretty severe time constraints at the moment. 

The voices fade as quickly as they’d come, so after double-checking to make sure their flies are both zipped, Noctis pulls the curtain aside and steps out of the machine with Prompto in tow. 

There’s no one in the immediate vicinity save for a girl with an unreadable nametag and long blonde hair, wiping down a machine a few feet away. As they pass her by, the look she gives them is decidedly unimpressed. Noctis doesn’t have to glance over at Prompto to know that he’s red all the way up to his hairline.

Noctis isn’t sure when he starts to laugh, but he’s breathless with it by the time they hit the pavement outside the arcade. Prompto is clearly still distressed from their encounter with the arcade girl, but Noctis can see a smile threatening the corners of his mouth anyway.

Driven by sudden impulse, he pulls Prompto into the shade by the side of the building and kisses him one more time. 

“We should go on a date,” he blurts out once they pull apart. He’s not sure he’s even going to say it until it’s already out in the air between them. 

“Was this not a date?” Prompto asks, feigning confusion. He laughs when Noctis socks his shoulder. “Kidding, dude. I’d date you anytime. I would’ve dated you when we were like, twelve.”

The way Prompto looks at him after he says that leaves no doubt in Noctis’s mind that he’s serious. The thought makes him feel happy and stupid, all at once. 

“The car’s not coming back around for a while,” he says. “How about now?"

In response, Prompto grabs his hand, which serves the dual purpose of being both a sweet gesture and a reminder that they really need to wash their hands soon. 

“Sounds good,” he says with a smile more brilliant than the sunlight all around them. 

As they head off down the street together, flushed with exertion and stained with suspicious fluids, Noctis can’t help but look forward to the rest of the summer.

**Author's Note:**

> THANKS FOR READING THESE FOOLISH WORDS. hmu on [tumblr](http://prismos.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/spectrologist) if you want!


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